Antidote
by jin fenghuang
Summary: Ron to the rescue. When Ron sees more than he ever wanted he decides that there can only be one explanation: Snape has to have done something to Harry. But what? Warning: contains slash, SS HP
1. Chapter 1

**Title: 52 hours  
Author: **jin_fenghuang  
**Warnings: **voyeurism, mention of off-screen het i.e. Ron/Lavender

This was written before DH!  
**Summary: **Ron to the rescue. When Ron sees more than he ever wanted he decides that there can only be one explanation: Snape has to have done something to Harry. But what?

**Notes:** This story is also known as '52 Hours'. The NC17 version can be found in my journal.

Won Won.

He was never going to live that one down. Ever. Even the memory made him cringe. And in front of his boss, too. What on earth had convinced him to bring her as his date? And to a Ministry function of all places? Ron ran a hand through his hair. It was his own fault, really.

He unbuttoned his collar with more force than necessary, scratching his neck.

Stupid, itchy collars, stupid itchy stuffy dress robes; no matter how well fitting, expensive or fashionable: they all sucked. And Lavender could leer all she wanted, they still made him look like a tit.

When he first signed up to be an Auror, he had never envisioned that having a career would include dress robes. Or boring gala dinners.

Patting his pockets for smokes, he sighed. Besides, how many weeks would it be - if ever - before his colleagues let him live down 'Won Won'?

Leaning against the wall he lit up, inhaled deeply, and smiled to himself. Given, those tits of hers were worth putting up with most of her crap.

In the distance a door opened, temporarily filling the hallway with eerie second-hand light and music. Ron pressed himself flat against the stone masonry, trying to blend into the shadows. He had –purposefully- wandered off rather far from the festively lit halls. The earful he would get if she caught him smoking …

The door closed, abruptly cutting of light and noise, leaving nothing but wavering shadows and the sound of his own breathing.

If one was afraid of the dark it would be …

Ron squared his shoulders. There is nothing in the shadows. I am a grown man, for crying out loud! He took another deep drag of his cigarette. The end glowed red in the dark.

A creak, a movement in the shadows - a little further down the corridor - made him jump.

Grown man, remember: Auror. Yes, I am an Auror. Whatever it is, it's more afraid of me than … Oh for crying out loud; it's Snape. Ron snorted. Good old Snape. The time when Snape could scare him was past. Long past.

Ron drew his wand, just in case.

The familiar tall figure stood, nearly hidden in the dark, facing the wall. Probably sneaking a smoke himself, the great old bat. Would explain his yellow teeth. Ron chuckled at the thought.

The slight groan he heard urged him closer.

Sheesh, Snape better not be hurling. Some of the canapés had tasted a little off, though. The git has probably been binging on the shrimp. Ron patted his stomach. After Hermione's cooking, he was sure nothing could ever mess with his digestion. At least Lavender didn't even bother trying to cook, or force feed him the efforts...

Another whispered groan echoed down the empty hallway. Use the loo, mate, no one wants to eviscarate your barf.

Ron stopped dead in his tracks when he noticed a hand threading through Snape's lank, greasy hair. No, ew! Someone - _ew_ - someone was snogging Snape - _Snape_! How drunk did you have to get to …

Ron's line off thought was cut off as he watched in morbid fascination as that hand - he couldn't bring himself to think of it being attached to an actual person - crept down to squeeze the man's arse.

Snape was getting some. Snape of all people … The thought that anyone would want to do that with Snape was _disgusting_.

Harry is not going to believe me. _No one_ is going to bloody believe me. He took a drag from his cigarette and sighed. Maybe if I get my hands on a Pensieve...

Shadows and moonlight were not kind to Snape's features as he threw his head back, baring his neck. The hand – Ron's brain insisted that it must be a puppet spell or an illusion - had abandoned Snape's arse - though not before squeezing it roughly - to twine tightly with Snape's own hand while the hooker, short, pale skin and dark hair - it _had_ to be a hooker - planted nipping kisses on Snape's throat - behind his ear.

The hooker definitely had dark hair, but to Ron's disappointment her face was still obscured by darkness.

It had to be a hooker. No one else would… Well, maybe Bullstrode …

As he entertained the thought of how much someone like Snape would have to pay - Ron estimated a rough 30 Galleons, at least. Button upon button of Snape's dress robes were undone, revealing pasty-pale skin. The hand sneaked down the front of Snape's gaping robe, tenderly ghosting over prominent ribs.

Wow she was good, that passion seemed real. Maybe she was closing her eyes or had had an aphrodisiac or something.

Snape's skeletal fingers cradled the hooker's head, pulling her up fiercely, desperately, hungrily locking their lips together.

They did charge extra for kisses, didn't they?

Ron made out a whispered, '_Now, here,' _before Snape was spun around and pressed against the wall by the other man. Ron blinked. Once. Twice.

His brain barely had time to register that Snape was getting it on with a bloke before he noticed something eerily familiar about the hooker kneeling before Snape. Too horrified to look away, Ron watched as the greasy bastard's trousers were hurriedly unfastened.

If Ronald Weasley had thought that the last thing he ever wanted to see was a hooker deep-throating Snape, he was wrong. In all actuality, the last thing he had ever wanted to see was _Harry_, on his knees, servicing Snape with apparent pleasure. . . Yet there they were.

Snape's knees gave ever so slightly and his hips rocked forward as he gasped. There was lust in Harry's eyes when he looked up at Snape. A guttural moan escaped Snape's bloodless lips. A pale hand cradled Harry's chin, the thumb brushing gently over moist, swollen sucking lips before ghosting over hollow cheeks, to hold him steady to the task.

Ron fled. All he could do was not to scream. The image of his best friend … servicing … the ugly bastard was nearly too much to bear. He hadn't even known Harry was gay. No. Was not gay. _Could not_ be gay. Especially not with that … that bastard.

He felt like hitting someone, preferably Snape.

Lavender found him later that night as he drowned the sordid and disgusting images in the punch bowl.

Considering her low cut dress gown and the heat of her kisses as she dragged him off to the ladies room, he thought to himself that she certainly had her merits... despite the 'Won Won' and the nagging.

At sunrise when she and Ron lay awake in his bed, their discarded dress robes as entangled as their bodies, he vowed to uncover and reverse whatever sick love spell Snape had to have cast on his best friend.

For Harry to miss out on this was not fair. Not fair at all.


	2. Chapter 2

Ron woke when Lavender wiggled out of the bed and sleepily tapped towards the bathroom. He admired her pear-shaped arse as she hunted for her robes on the floor.

"I will be in Sheffield next weekend. Aunt Clara's birthday. Are you sure you can't come?" She flashed him her most winning smile.

Ron let out an un-committing hrmpf and wrapped his arms over his eyes.

"You know how I loath to go alone."

The whine in her voice made Ron cringed internally. The last thing he needed was another hour with Lavender's family and their inevitable questions: 'When are you getting married? Are you getting married? Why aren't you married yet? When will you ever marry, you're not getting any younger! " Her family was… alright… in homeopathic doses … Once a year. Besides, their relationship was casual. Mutually so. They had talked about this.

Ron rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "I have work to catch up on, Lav. Shacklebolt's been giving me grief all week about my filing."

_God she looks hot when she pouts. _

Lavender let herself be pulled back onto the rumpled bed. She took revenge by using him to warm her icy feet.

His thumb gently caressed her face. "How about I make it up to you… tonight? I can make my famous lasagne?"

She snuggled close, resting her head on his shoulder. "I would love that." She sighed contentedly and then giggled. "Ron… later!" She gently swatted his hands away from unbuttoning her robes. "I really have to go; Skeeter is waiting for my report of last night."

He yawned and stretched. "Half past six at my place. Can you pick up some wine? You know I am pants at that."

She kissed him on the nose. "Half past six it is."

Ron made a mental note to dress in Muggle clothes as he got out of bed and sniffed his socks for freshness and then shrugged and put them on anyway_._ He grinned to himself. Tesco's Frozen dinners - Muggle ingenuity at its best.

The day had started out so nicely . . . Yet an hour later he found himself sitting in Hermione's kitchen, wishing he had never left his bed.

:::

"For the last bloody time, Hermione, I am _not_ dating Lavender."

Ron took another sip of his coffee, frowned, then added more milk to the acidic brew. It curdled. He glared at it for a moment and then stubbornly cradled the mug in his hands and leaned his elbows on the wooden kitchen table.

"If you are not dating her, then why, Ronald Weasley, did you take her to that function?"

Ron cringed as Hermione slammed the pan onto her stove. "Maybe I just didn't want to show up alone."

"Good God, Ron, are you sleeping with her again?"

"No, I am not -- bloody hell, I mean…Well, what if I am?" Ron smirked cheekily when Hermione turned to glare at him. At least he was getting some. After fixing Harry's problem he should work on getting Hermione laid. She sure needed to get some. It would make life easier for all involved.

She had turned back to the stove, furiously attacking innocently frying bacon with a wooden spatula. "You must know best…"

"You know, the bacon is already dead; there's no need to kill it again!"

The stabbing stopped then continued with increased force. "If you don't like my cooking, have _her_ make you breakfast then. Oh, I forgot, she doesn't do homely...or _sane_ ..."

"For fuck's sake, what is your problem, Hermione?" Maybe he could get Harry to . . . 'help' her… It would certainly solve two problems in one go…

Forcefully adjusting the pan on the flame, the Hermione turned around pointing the spatula at him, making him yell in surprise and scoot his chair back to avoid the hot greasy droplets.

She paused in her spatula waving long enough to shift to stand with her arms akimbo and glare at him down her nose. "Other than your inability to express yourself with anything other than profanity, fact is that I am not willing to deal with another of your psychotic break-ups. Remember, 'Won Won,' when you had to kip on my couch for a whole week because 'someone' would not stop flooing you?" Hermione hmpfed turned around again to stab at the bacon.

"Oh, whatever…"

Ron stared down at his coffee in irritation and thought to himself that _Lavender_ at least knew how to use her mouth for something more pleasant than chewing him a new one.

Hermione and Ron both turned when they heard a thump, immediately followed by the sound of someone cursing loudly.

"Your shoes in front of the floo again, Ronald?" Hermione asked waspishly.

Ignoring her, he craned his neck towards the familiar voice. "You okay, mate?"

Harry limped into the kitchen, brushing soot from his sleeves.

"Grand, mate, no worries. Morning, Hermione." He pulled her into a hug. "Is that bacon I smell?"

She poured him some coffee and shoved the mug into his hand. "Take a seat, will you?"

Harry turned towards Ron quietly mouthing: "That time of the month?"

Ron shrugged and grinned at the other man as he sat down across the table from him. "Hermione's made her politically correct scrambled eggs, especially for you."

Harry snorted quietly as Ron ducked the piece of toast that came flying from the kitchen with practiced ease.

"Come on, mate, they don't look burned to me." Harry shot her a winning smile.

"Why don't you microwave us breakfast next time, Ronald?" Hermione filled plates with bacon, eggs and sausages and roughly shoved one in front of Ron after putting down Harry's and her own carefully. She then turned her attention to Harry, pointedly ignoring Ron. "How was the function last night? I heard Ronald had a date?"

"Did he?"

"I did not! I don't date! Change of topic anyone?"

"Smells amazing, Hermione," Harry said, wincing slightly as he sat down.

Ron turned green. Shoving his plate away, he covered his face with his hands, unable to look Harry in the eye.

"Ron?"

"I am not hungry."

"You alright mate?"

Hermione slammed her cup down hard, splattering coffee all over the table. "Ron? Are you laughing at me? You could just say that you don't like my cooking!"

Ron slammed his fist on the table, causing another coffee volcano to erupt. "I. Am. Just. Not. Hungry!"

Harry leaned over and patted his friend on the back. Locking eyes with Hermione who frowned angrily at him, he grinned. "He didn't hook up with Lavender again, did he?"

Ron made a sputtering noise in protest.

Torn between amusement and worry, Harry turned towards his best mate. "Ron, what is wrong?"

Hermione's chair fell over with a bang as she stood up abruptly. "The hell if I know!" Her voice cracked with anger as she turned to face them, her eyes burning with hurt. "Or care!",

Unable to speak, the two men stared in shock as she stomped away and slammed the door behind her.

:::

The flames in the fireplace flared green.

Hermione looked up from the morning paper, put her coffee mug down and blinked. Twice. Ronald Weasley, wearing an orange Chudley Cannons t-shirt and a lime-green towel around his waist, fell out of the floo.

"Mngghmone."

"Morning, Ron. Nice shoes." Shaking her head, she smirked at his combat boots. Oh for a pensieve …

Ron walked over to the icebox and opened it. "Milk?" Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed one of the bottles and turned around, grinning.

Hermione grunted something unintelligible in agreement, turning her attention back to the article she had been reading.

"You know," Ron said, slouching against the kitchen counter, "I could really do with a coffee!"

"Is it noon already? It can talk!" Hermione looked at him over the folded down newspaper, smiling. "On the stove, Ron."

He helped himself to a mug and joined her at the table.

"Ron, stop stealing my paper."

"Oh, come on, just let me have page three."

"Ron, this is not The Sun."

Ron stuck out his tongue at her and pinched the sports section. "MtkingHarrytbrr," Ron announced happily, stuffing another biscuit into his mouth.

"Chew. Swallow. Talk."

Ron's intention to blow her a raspberry ended up with him spewing crumbs all over the table.

"Honestly, Ronald, that is disgusting. How old are we, again?"

"Twenty-five, mother." More crumbs showered the table.

"Ron…" He took a large gulp of coffee.

"As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted: I am taking Harry to a pub tonight,"

Ron grinned, " He needs to get out more."

Hermione nodded in agreement. "Good idea … you are not trying to set him up with one of your workmates, again? It's not that secretary of Shacklebolt's, is it? I have been tempted to tell her that Harry is gay, just to get her to back off. You alright Ron? Too many biscuits?"

Ron spluttered some crumbs and coffee but scooted away and shock his head when she leaned over to clap him on the back.

"Fine, suit yourself, suffocate… Anyway she's been nagging me about him every time I see her. What's her name again … Catherine something. You know, potion-blonde, wears too much make-up, ditzy."

Ron tried to hide his unease by reaching for the sugar-bowl, adding several spoonfuls to his coffee. "Really Hermione, do I look as if I have a death wish? Stop laughing, that was a rhetorical question. Do you remember Yoiko? Junior Auror, Japanese. Harry seemed to have a thing for black hair," Ron took a sip of coffee. "Remember him mooning over that Ravenclaw seeker, Cho? Quiet fit she was, too."

Hermione nodded, cradling her cub with a sad expression. "I still don't think that is a great idea. You should at least ask him first."

"Now why would I do that? He would never show if I did!"


	3. Chapter 3

Strawberry flavoured froth dripped of Ron's face, forming a small pink puddle on the floor.

To say that the night out had gone well, would have been the understatement of the year.

If Harry had not been mad at him already for setting him up on a blind date unknowingly, the froufrou drink Yoiko had thrown in Ron's face - when he told her that she just must not be Harry's type and say would she be interested in meeting his good friend Hermione - would have amused Harry to no end. Had he not already stormed out. Stupid bint.

That he could hear Hermione in his head gloating: 'told you so, you should have asked him before you set him up on a blind date' did not help either.

Ron was at his wit's end. _Finite Incantatem_ had not worked either. Whatever it was the bastard had done to Harry, it was bloody strong. But what?

He had to do something. Everyday that bastard got his disgusting hands on Harry was one day too much.

Ron nearly hit himself in the head. Was he an Auror or what?

He looked left and right, and left again, before he opened the gadget storeroom and snuck inside.

He had not felt this nervous since Harry and him had nearly been caught by Snape while sneaking around under Harry's Invisibility Cloak.

Ah, Snape. Stupid twat. All his fault. Who did he think he was pawing his best friend, disgusting traitor!

Harry deserved better and he, Ron, would make sure Harry would get it.

Self-righteous anger burned and consumed all doubts Ron might have had as he pocketed the surveillance kit.

Ron sat cross-legged on his couch, scratching his head in frustration. Bugger it; they had specialists for this stuff far a reason. Sighing, he summoned another beer.

The manual was giving him a headache. The only thing that kept him going was his mantra of: 'Harry is my best mate; I am doing this for Harry.'

Two hours later Ron thought that he had a decent idea on how to operate the bees. Apparentlythey came with a _hive conscience._ So, each one of the little buggers is connected to the globe-thingy. This I get.

_Once one has transferred X amounts of bees onto a photo or portrait of choice, which then had to pass the wards of the place one wished to put under surveillance._

Put bees in picture, bring along past Harry's infamous 'wards of paranoia'. Ron smirked; the morning paper should do the trick.

_Once the wards have been bypassed, the bees 'swarm' and hide in any picture available. _

_Using spell B34 the location of each bee can be adjusted to optimise transmission. _

Yes, I get it. Bees spread, pictures can be changed.

_Each bee reports live-stream from its picture to the hive-globe, where it would store up to capacity._

Time limit, darn. It took Ron a minute to calculate the amount of hours and bees he needed. He settled for 52 hours, enough time to record the weekend, and for him to return the surveillance kit to the storeroom before it was missed. This wasn't worth losing his job over if caught.

Ron brushed his bad conscience away. He was doing this for Harry. If anyone was going to take the fall it was Snape. Bastard.

The bees were transferred easily enough from their hive-globe to the newspaper.

Choosing the 'Avalon Potions Research, Inc.' ad to hide his little snitches - it seemed fitting - Ron used his wand to place bee after bee into the photograph.

It really was a brilliant piece of magical engineering. He pondered for a moment where to hide the hive-globe that would store and replay the information. He needed somewhere safe – Lavender-proof to be precise - somewhere no one in their right mind would ever look.

Grinning, he took down the dusty box labelled 'Weasley Wizard Wheezes, BETA' from his bedroom wardrobe. A big orange and lime sticker on the front proclaimed: Mostly Harmless.

Taking off the lid, Ron made room for the hive-globe, careful not to touch any of the more volatile items.

The 'Snape-in-the-Box' glared at him. Ron took it out of the carton.

Bloody hell, he totally had forgotten about this ingenious prototype.

Snape gently swayed back and forth. At four inches his sour scowl was … kind of adorable. Ron smirked. Giving the enormous nose a gentle push, he watched Snape rock violently on his spring.

"FIFTY points from Gryffindor! "DETENTION!" Ron shuddered.

Even the twins were not suicidal enough to try and sell this. Not while Snape lived.

It was Sunday afternoon before Ron had time to go through the recordings.

Sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor, notepad and pen handy, Ron started a random recording. The globe filled with static and a picture swam into focus.

The Daily Prophet seemed to have been discarded on the floor. The angle was odd, tilted, from the ground up, but the best that he could get. Bless Harry for reading in the loo.

Ron could see the claw footed tub and the door. He skimmed forward through the recording, past their daily ablution.

Snape, trousers around his ankles, taking a dump; that was way too disturbing. Snape seemed to take a long time too. Ron smirked. Constipated bastard, should eat more fibre. Maybe some dried prunes now and then, and he would have been less of a pain in the arse back in school. Less of a pain in his arse, too.

The amount of money he could make selling a picture of this to Gryffindor House… Snapey Poop plastered all over Hogwarts.

Ron shook his head and switched to another bee. Disturbing. WAY too disturbing.

The next recording that caught his attention was from a bee in the kitchen. Kitchen, Snape making tea. Good place, kitchens. No toilets.

He switched to normal speed and leaned closer.


	4. Chapter 4

Snape reached for the biscuit jar.

This would be funny. Ron scooted closer in expectation. He knew these kinds of jars, bloody pumpkin shaped monstrosities that they were. They had one at the Burrow. Remembering his experiences with it, he grinned. Oh, this would be beyond great. It would be bloody brilliant.

Snape tried to lift the lid of the orange jar. The animated pottery leaves slapped his hand away. Snape growled setting down his tea cup with force.

The front of the jar, where the word 'biscuits' had been in ornate letters, now read: 'You have not had your dinner! No biscuit for you!'

Snape reached for the lid again. The crackle of discharged energy filled the air. Snape let out a rather undignified yelp and sucked his fingers in pain.

"Of all the stupid, idiotic household charms!"

The jar read: 'Bad Language, no biscuit for you!'

"Why you little…" Snape had drawn his wand. "Petrificus totalus!"

The jar scooted out of the way.

Ron watched in fascination. Snape vs. Jar of DOOM. Priceless. He had to remember to thank Mum for giving it to Harry as a housewarming present. Not even the twins had been able to hex the jar into submission. Not for lack of trying, though.

After a couple of minutes, Snape had the trembling jar backed into a corner.

Someone was laughing. Snape twirled around in an impressive sweep of black robes. He looked vaguely guilty, a bit like a little boy having been caught with his hand in the biscuit jar. On anyone else it would have been cute. "What?!"

"Vicious little bastard, isn't it!" Harry leaned casually against the doorframe, amusement written all over his face.

Snape scowled.

Ron snorted, suddenly reminded of a certain four-inch version.

"I only wanted a bloody biscuit!" He folded his arms across his chest, looking petulant.

"You two seemed to be having a great time, maybe I will ask Mrs Weasley to give you one for Christmas."

"Hah, bloody hah. Weasley… I should have known. I want a biscuit."

Harry walked over to Snape, kissing him on the cheek, his fingers tenderly ghosting along the line of Snape's neck, lingering on the curve of his yaw. Harry opened the drawer next to them, taking out a pack of shortbread. Grinning he held the box up like a badge of victory.

"That," he smirked and jerked his head at the pumpkin-shaped, trembling jar, "is why I keep them here… chocolate or strawberry-shortbread?"

"I don't want one of those."

Honestly could Snape sound more like a spoilt child? Ron shook his head. What on earth did Harry see in him?

Harry eyed Snape with amusement. "Uhuh."

"I refuse to be bested by a piece of tacky crockery!"

"Okaaaay." He wrapped his arms around Snape, resting his cheek on Snape's shoulder. "Severus… can I trust you not to demolish anything in the kitchen that you cannot fix? I have to go meet the publisher. And …"

Snape buried his hand in Harry's hair, pulling him in for a passionate kiss.

" …the jar is unbreakable."

Snape harrumphed, kissing Harry once more. "And why would this be of interest to me, Potter?"

"Because I know you, Professor."

As soon as Harry had Apparated, Snape started to rummage under the sink.

"Unbreakable, huh … that we will see." His smile triumphant and not one bit pleasant as he resurfaced from under the sink.

Ron inched away from the globe. Snape happily swinging a hammer was scary, even if it was just a recording.

Tunelessly humming 'God Save the Queen,' Snape chose a saucer and placed it on the kitchen counter, glaring at the porcelain pumpkin. "Watch and learn, you oversized sugar pot."

He glowered at the jar. With several well aimed hits he smashed the saucer into tiny pieces. "Reparo!"

The jar received his best Longbottom-pants-wetting stare.

"Death …" the hammer swung, hit, and smashed, once again reduceding the saucer to tiny shards.

"… will not end your suffering!" And again. And again.

Ron shuddered at Snape's demonic glare. That wasn't a cackle, was it? All he needs now is a lab-coat and a thunderstorm. And maybe a white fluffy cat.

After the fourth or the fifth destruction - Ron had lost count - the biscuit jar started to tremble.

Snape smirked at the porcelain pumpkin, menacingly swinging the hammer. "Your turn…"

Trembling hard, the jar cautiously lifted its lid. The inscription now read: 'Would Professor Snape like a biscuit, sir?

Ron sped up the recording in disgust. Fucking Death Eater. Probably got off on intimidating kittchenware. The bastard. Maybe that was it, maybe he was threatening Harry into submission.

The bee recording was speeding by. Snape reading the Prophet, a cup of tea cooling forgotten next to him on the table. Snape leaving the room, entering the adjoined bathroom.

Ron switched bees. He could not take the chance of Snape screwing with, say, Harry's toothpaste. Toothpaste could be devious. You never knew what potion could be hidden under all that mint.

The picture changed to Snape turning iron faucets over the bathtub. Ron smirked; George owed him five Galleons. Ten if he actually caught Snape washing his hair. Lucky me, to catch Snape at his bi-annual bath…

Ron watched in odd fascination as Snape draped a towel over the bathroom mirror before he undressed. There were faint scars on his back and forearms, their wide puckered smoothness suggesting that they once had been deep wounds.

He kind of looks like a peeled prawn, without his robes. Ron sniggered. Seems like the Death Eaters don't like to play nice. Better people got worse. Poor Longbottoms. Bastard's gotta be glad that that's all he got.

Yet something of the shape of the scars seemed oddly familiar to Ron. He couldn't quiet put his finger on it. Snape folded his clothes neatly on the chair, and then sighed as his emaciated body slipped into the hot water.

There really was not much to recommend Snape. Scratch that. There was nothing. His ribs prominent under pale, nearly hairless skin, legs stick-like. His belly, to belie his sagging arse and protruding ribs, forming a slight hairy pouch. The only thing average seemed to be Snape's prick.

Ron did not hide his glee. Hah! Big noses my arse.

As Snape relaxed into the hot water his scars turned angry red under the heat.

Ron swallowed hard. He had seen these kinds of scars before. Werewolf claws had threaded a similar pattern into Bill's skin. Bill, whose nightmares still woke the whole house. Ron felt his face burn. Up to now he had always assumed that Snape's being an arse to Remus had been caused by, well, Snape being an arse. He had never imaged that Snape had gotten more than a scare from the infamous episode.

Trying to shake the creeping discomfort, Ron fast-forwarded.


	5. Chapter 5

'I want to watch you,' Snape whispered.

Harry nodded and moaned, snuggling back against the pillows on the bed.

Ron turned away. It was not, after having lived in the same dorm room for seven years, something he hadn't accidentally seen or heard before, but doing so now, seems… wrong.

No, what he wanted was to watch was Snape. His expression, his actions.

Snape sat stark and forbidding in his high-backed, leather chair. The fire roared behind him, outlining him in crimson and gold, making him look like something straight out of hell. Snape's hands gripped the armrests of his chair, yellowish fingernails digging into the upholstery. Harry's moans and groans of pleasure, his wriggling against the crisp sheets were amplified by Snape's eerie silence.

Ron switched pictures quick enough to catch Harry pinch his nipples, arching into the delicious torture of the sensation. His cock hard and dark and leaking.

Flipping back to the bee capturing Snape, Ron noticed that Snape's top shirt-button had been undone.

So, not made out of stone after all, the pervert.

The moaning became louder, interlaced with passionate sighs. Snape's bottom lip had started to tremble, his breathing harsher. Ron watched a surprisingly pink tongue slip out, wetting parchment dry, cracked lips.

A small drop of sweat formed on Snape's pasty forehead, ran down his hollow cheeks to damp the impeccable starched, white shirt at his throat. Snape seemed to be losing it, moaning out whispered words between harsh breaths.

Ron cranked up the volume. The bastard better not be putting some kind of spell on Harry. But all Ron could make out, even with the volume at maximum level was, 'Oh god, Harry, yes, my Harry, please…'

Disappointed, Ron turned his attention back to his best friend. Disgustedly fascinated, Ron watched Harry sensually wet two of his fingers only to thrust them into his…

Ron changed the picture. This was not something that he wanted to see.

Snape, on the other hand, seemed to be slowly losing his façade of control. A drop of sweat was running down his throat, glittering in the light, his head tilted back, supported only by the high-backed chair. Snape's breathing was ragged, his eyes but slits; one hand had undone his zipper and sneaked into his trousers, stroking in rhythm to Harry's moans.

Harry's passionate, 'Severus,' echoed off the stone walls of his bedroom, dragging Snape over the edge with him in one desperate, painful groan. Snape's body arched and slacked.

Breathing hard for a few moments, he heaved himself to unsteady feet, staggering over to the bed.

Ron could see Harry's rather satisfied, saucy smile when Snape lay down beside him, and Harry looked at him as if… as if he mattered. Once again, Ron was impressed by Harry's magical ability when Harry, with barely a wave of his hand, removed Snape's armour-like clothes into a neatly folded stack on the chair.

When Snape gathered Harry into his arms, Ron surprised himself by not feeling utterly revolted. His disgust seemed to have turned into something else. Something like understanding.

Not entirely comfortable with this development, Ron decided to call it a day and accioed himself a butterbeer.

Opening another butterbeer, Ron let the recording speed through the night. He watched them toss and turn and - he shuddered - cuddle. Harry also seemed to have a tendency to hog the blankets.

Served Snape right. Ron watched him shiver in the chilly autumn breeze and wished Snape would catch pneumonia and die. It would make things a lot easier.

The recording sped on. Ron watched Snape slither back under the blankets and close to Harry, his unnaturally pasty arms forcing Harry into an embrace. Snape did not snore, or even breeze loudly; this struck Ron as odd, considering the size of that nose.

Morning dawned, the bluish black shades fading to grey, when Snape started to toss and turn with a vengeance.

Bastard's having a nightmare. Ron slowed the recording to normal speed. I wonder what about?

Snape bolted upright, screaming in the last throws of the nightmare's clutches. His eyes wild and uncomprehending, rapidly searching the darkness. He was breathing in harsh, gasps.

Next to him Harry stirred.

"Sev'rus? You okay?"

Snape sat on the edge of the bed, his face buried in his hands, distant, unresponding, still trapped in the residue of the dream. Harry pulled himself into wakefulness.

"Severus?" He scooted closer, tentatively putting a hand on Snape's back, rubbing it gently.

"Nightmare?" The hunched body next to him rocked slightly, drawing in on himself. Harry seemed to take that as confirmation. His fingers carted through Snape's lank, sleep tousled hair.

"Severus, look at me!" Snape shock his head.

"Severus, please." Harry carefully covered Snape's skeletal hands with his, gently pulling them away from Snape's face. He let him, looking utterly lost. Scared. Harry got out of the bed, pulling Snape with him.

"Come, I'll make us a cup of tea."

Ron stared. Snape was crying.


	6. Chapter 6

"The bill was nearly 50 Galleons, Harry." Snape pulled the door open with a vengeance, stalking over to the table.

"I told you it was my treat." The door shook on its hinges when Harry slammed it shut with equal force.

Ron wondered what the door had done to either of them.

"Your treat? What for, Harry? I do not need your charity. I happen to have a job. I can pay my share!" Snape shrugged out of his cloak, draping it over his left arm like a shield, turning towards the window, away from Harry.

"This isn't about fairness. It's a stupid bill, Severus. One bill." Harry ran an aggravated hand through his hair, pushing his glasses back up his nose in his trademark nervous gesture.

Snape spun around, anger in his eyes. "FIFTY Galleons worth of stupidity."

Ron cringed. Fifty Galleons. Bloody hell, that was about a week's pay.

"Fine, next time we can go somewhere cheaper."

"Why? Are you saying that I cannot afford the 'Louis XIV'? What do you think I am, some kind of charity case?" Snape glowered down on Harry, his lips pinched into a thin line.

"Sheesh, Severus, you sound like Ron, you know!"

"I most certainly do not!"

Ron agreed.

"This is stupid; it was only dinner, Severus." Harry voice sullen.

"This is stupid? You get your will, and what I want is stupid. As always." Snape had thrown his cloak over the kitchen chair, face red with fury, arms akimbo.

"What? No!"

"Then what, dear Saviour, what is it you wanted? Showing off your wealth and fame?"

"You are being an arse; all I wanted was for us to have a good time." Harry kicked the chair.

"I don't need your money to have a good time"

Harry was leaning onto the table now, screaming: "Why does everything, every _little_ thing, have to be such a struggle with you? This is SO NOT FUCKING WORTH IT! I am so sick of this. So fucking _sick_." The windows rattled in their frames with the magic charge of Harry's anger.

Snape blanched, drawing in on himself, his face drained of anger, of emotion. He turned around, walking away from the table, staring out into the night through the kitchen window. "Is that what you want? To end this?"

"You gotta be bloody kidding me! Of course, do you think I want this to go on forever? Are you out of your mind?"

Snape stood rigidly, face ashen. He reached out for his coat, stepping towards the door. His shoulders trembled slightly, his voice barely above a whisper." I … I guess then this is…" he swallowed hard. "Good-bye."

"What? NO! Oh for fucks sake …" Harry looked up in confusion, taking in the sudden change of emotion, understanding dawning in his eyes. He breathed deeply. Once, twice. "Severus? Wait!" He tentatively stepped closer to Snape. Snape stepped out of reach, but Harry followed.

"No, no, no, I am an idiot. I didn't mean it that way." Harry gently touched Snape's rigid back, his voice thick, failing with raw emotion. "I was talking about the bill, not us. Severus, please. This, us, you. Tis worth … more. Everything …"

Snape still had not turned around, but he seemed to relax a bit, his fingers interlacing with Harry's. "Harry. I … I… people never… this is … new. I don't know how to handle this. I have never been good at …."

Harry rested his head against Snape's bony back. "I know, Severus, I know. Me neither."

Ron caught himself sympathising with Snape. He knew all too well how Harry's casual approach to money could grind. It was something Harry had never been able to get.

Thinking back on the many times money had been an issue between him and Harry, on how growing up dirt poor had sucked arse - the stupid second hand robes, Harry getting one first-class broom after the other just for existing. The unfairness of it all… He sighed in frustration.

Sorry mate, but on this one, I have to side with the git.

Snape had been editing the manuscript on the veranda facing the garden. A blanket on his lap, guarding against the spring chill, his pen scratching comments into the suburban afternoon quiet. Every now and then Snape's eyes would wander into nothingness watching the clouds go by.

Ron snorted. He was kind of glad Harry had never asked him to read 'the thing.'

At least now Harry would get mad at Snape when he told him his writing, well … sucked. But then, Ron thought bitterly, if one was Harry Potter, what did that matter.

"Cuppa?" Harry stepped through the kitchen door onto the veranda, handing Snape a steaming mug, sitting down next to him.

"Mmh."

"That bad?" Harry lifted the blanket from Snape's lap, draping around the two of them. Snape wrapped an arm around Harry's shoulder.

The domesticity of it all made Ron gag.

"There are a couple of things, but over all it is surprisingly entertaining."

"I am glad you find the trials of my childhood entertaining." Harry harrumphed.

The arm sneaked lower, around Harry's waist, drawing him close. "I find entertaining the adult version much more interesting."

Harry grinned and scooted closer under the tartan warmth of their shared blanket. "The things I put up with…"

Snape put the book down, resting his head on Harry's. "You always did have a minor Cinderella complex…"

"Just waiting for my Prince C_harming_ to show up… still waiting…"

God, his teeth are yellow. Ron shuddered at the thought of what his breath must be like. Yet Harry did not seem to mind at all. This was all so twisted. And wrong, so very wrong. Ron shuddered. Hair that rancid had to smell bad. The idea of touching it, of Snape touching Harry made him nauseous.

Snape's hand slid down Harry's back. His lips caressed Harry's ear, the tip of his tongue sneaking out, sliding along the shell of Harry's ear, mumbling secret words that made Harry blush and his breathing became ragged his voice sultry. "Oy, that tickles! Naughty, Professor!"

A faint smile played across Snape's lips. He bit down on Harry's earlobe. "Do not call me 'professor' when I am doing 'this.'"

Harry squirmed in his seat. "You are evil!" Harry gasped, slightly rocking back and forth.

"Do you want me to stop?"

Harry moaned. "Oh, my God. Again."

"'My God' it is now…" Snape drew him into a heated kiss.

Harry nipped his lower lip. "Enough! Now!" He pulled away the blanket, desperately undoing Snape's trousers, wriggling them down a bit.

Harry toed off his trainers - his trousers sliding off his skinny legs to puddle around his feet - Snape's fingers still up his arse. Need and desperation plain on his face.

Ron's brain blanked. He had known that they were doing _something_ under there, but this. How can anyone want, or even enjoy that? Frozen in horrified fascination he continued to watch.

Snape's whispered, 'Harry,' nearly drowned in Harry's moans as he came.

Hot white come on his hand, trousers and porch. Snape's hips jerked once, twice, spilling deep into Harry's arse. His arms wrapped possessively around Harry's waist, both of them panting hard.

"That was… wow."

Ron waited for the scathing remark about Harry's verbal skills, but it never came.

All Snape did was tighten his grip around Harry's waist and gently nuzzle Harry's sweaty neck.


	7. Chapter 7

For crying out loud, enough with the going at it like rabbits, alright.

Even Lav and I are not that bad. Well, maybe. He grinned, she was coming over tomorrow night for dinner'n'shag.

Harry pushed the door open with his hips, carrying a large tray.

Plaid pyjama bottoms dangerously low on his hips, smacks of flour on his face and bathrobe.

"Scoot over, I made breakfast!"

"Hmpf."

Snape turned over, hiding his face under the pillow. "Go away!"

"Sevvie, oh Sevviekins!" Harry cooed in a glass-shattering falsetto. "Rise and shine!"

The pillow thumbed off the wall behind Harry.

"Oy, I made you breakfast, you berk."

Snape grumpily opened his eyes, blinked a couple of times and then – as requested – scooted over to make space for Harry and the tray.

"Oh yummy, you reheated Friday's take-out. What is it? Two days old chow mien with a side of chutney."

"Very funny. I made French toast. There are also scrambled eggs, cappuccino and some strawberries with yoghurt."

"Harry…"

"Aren't you glad to have me: your own personal naked gourmet chef?"

"Potter, your cooking skills extend to ordering take-out, besides … Dobby's dulcet voice carries."

Harry had the grace to blush.

Ron shock his head. Mate, we will have to have a talk on how to successfully lie about food production. Or maybe not. Snape did have one or two IQ points on Lavender and probably knew more hexes if he found out.

Snape slid a hand under Harry's bathrobe. "Now, the naked part does sound appetizing…"

Harry was about to snuggle close when Snape shoved him away.

"What?"

Snape pointed to door. "It is watching us. AGAIN." Snape reached down, groping for a slipper.

The jar read: All work and no play make Professor Snape a grumpy boy!

The slipper hit the doorframe. The jar scooted out of range, peeping at them from behind the door.

"Aw, what did you do that for? I think it is cute!"

"Harry. It is _watching_ us."

"So what."

Harry's hand slit under the blanket again, making Snape growl low in his throat. "Then by all means, let's give it something to watch…"

Forgotten in the doorway the jar scooted closer: Go get him tiger!

Great! Now Snape had a fan club. A pervy fan club.

Ron stopped the recording before he had to watch them having another go at it.

Dobby had made the breakfast. Darn. That annoying elf was absolutely devoted to Harry. No way in hell would he spice Harry's food with a love potion. There went that theory. Bugger.

The eggs did look good, though.

Ron wondered if he could afford a house elf. Did that coffee have foamy milk on top? And French toast. Man he loved French toast.

Would all of Hermione's yelling be worth foamy coffee?

Damn those eggs looked good.

Ron got up and nuked himself some pizza.

He glared at the dishes. Damn his father and his Muggle obsession. Three darn microwaves. Three. But a dishwasher. No, sir.

He stretched his back; it popped. Frustration mingled with resignation. He had been watching the two of them for – he checked his watch – more than three hours and had found nothing. Less then nothing. Ron glared at the empty notepad, then sighed.

What did Shacklebolt always say? 'If it looks like a duck, quacks like a duck and swims in a

pond, it probably is a duck'.

Harry the odd duck. Ron snorted. It fit. A very bad pun about Harry's obsession with Snitches came to mind and had Ron in giggles for at least a minute. Why Snape of all people was still beyond him, but Harry had seemed okay.

Ron checked the globe; there were only a few scenes left that he had not screened yet.

Deciding to get it over and done with, he chose a random one and started the recording again.

Snape had fallen asleep on the couch in front of the fireplace, his feet on a settee, a book propped on his chest. Even sleeping he looked tired.

The grandfather clock chimed.

Harry looked up from his work, rubbing tired eyes. Running a hand through his hair, his eyes wandered first to the clock, then to the couch. Careful not to make noise, he scooted his chair back, walking over to the fitfully sleeping Snape. Ron could see a tender smile forming on Harry's face. He gently removed the book, taking care to mark the page, placing it on the occasional table.

Snape seemed not to notice. Harry picked up the tartan blanket that was draped over the stuffed leather armchair, tenderly tugging it around Snape, placing a soft kiss on his brow.

Snape opened drowsy, confused, trusting eyes. "Harry?

"Sleep, love. I am right here."

Ron paused the transmission. The sense that he was intruding stronger than ever. Maybe he couldn't understand, but then, it was not for him to understand anyway.

He felt like a total arse, but he guessed he deserved that.

He was about to call it a night when he noticed a recording with Harry looking beyond miserable, kneeling in front of the floo. He looked like he needed a hug, or a drink.

The fire flared floo green.

"Severus? Severus, you there?" Harry knelt in front of the fireplace, his arms wrapped around himself in a defensive gesture. He seemed to shiver.

"Harry? Do you have any idea how late it is? This better be important, I have little shits to teach tomorrow morning."

"I told Hermione."

"Harry?"

"I told her… about us. Severus, can you please come through? Please?"

Ron's jaw hit the ground.

Harry had told Hermione first. Part of Ron felt slighted. A big part screamed: I am his best friend.

The flames flared and swallowed Snape's head only to spit out the whole staggering figure of

the Potions Master. He barely managed to brush some of the soot of his robes before Harry attached himself to him like a limpet.

"I take it she didn't approve." Snape's fingers gently carted through Harry's hair.

Harry nodded.

"Well, at least we are in no danger of Miss Granger knitting us socks – and I am using the term 'sock' in a very generous sense - any time soon. Count your blessings while you can."

"Severus, this is not funny." Harry scowled at a smirking Snape.

"I happen to disagree. Just wait till she starts making batches and starts handing out petitions for 'gay rights'."

Ron giggled. Snape had pegged her down pretty good. Her infamous SPEW activism had carried on from second year all the way to the present and was more than a minor pain in the arse. She still tried to get him to wear those stupid badges to Ministry functions.

Then it hit him: Hermione did not approve. HERMIONE?! Miss Lost Cause. Miss Tolerant. And from Harry's reaction it must have gone really shitty.

Ron pondered that for a minute then his face lit up with a vicious smile. He could be the reasonable one for once. The adult.

This would be awesome! He just hoped Harry would tell him soon.

Not that he would rub it into Hermione's face. Well… maybe a little.

Ron punched the air. Life was good.

END


End file.
